Hey Scott: NYC Bodegas Vs. Chicago Grocery Stores
The first in a series where I write about whatever someone tells me to write about.
This series began when I told my friend Topher I could probably write about 500 words, give or take, on pretty much any topic presented to me. I asked him to help me put this to the test, and he contributed the prompt below. If you’d like me to write about something, feel free to email me at srm5082@gmail.com.
“Hey Scott, you should write about the differences and similarities between grocery stores in the Midwest and also bodegas in big cities.”
You may notice the title is different from the prompt itself. We’re just getting started with this experiment and I’m already slightly switching things up — but I think my editorial alterations keep the crux of the prompt intact. It’s just a nuance, really, that ties closer to my personal experiences picking up supplies from local shops both big and small. I lived in New York City for almost six years, then Washington, DC for about three before picking up once again and moving to Chicago just over two years ago. (Next up? Fucking space.) So I’m gonna focus on the juxtaposition between small NYC bodegas and the gigantic, two-floor grocery store called Mariano’s (which is, like, Whole Foods-adjacent, I guess) a two-minute walk from my downtown Chicago apartment.
Anyway, we’ll start with cats.
Bodegas often have them. Mariano’s most certainly does not. The Bodega Cat is a staple in many New York City establishments, ostensibly to ward off rats, mice and other rodents that might try to make ingress into stores to fuck shit up. Some people get all riled up about these cats’ presence because they think it’s not sanitary. They’re not wrong, but I opine the alternative is worse. You don’t want your joint overrun by Rat Kings and Rat Queens. As someone who unwillingly lived with rats the size of Pomeranians in his apartment, and never saw a goddamn nickel of rent even though I’m pretty sure they would fire up my roommate’s X-Box, bust into my gigantic bag of croutons (that I had for reasons I don’t even comprehend) and make a real night of it while we slept, I can assure you that keeping rats and mice at bay is your best move. Plus, Bodega Cats are real cute. Some of them are even cordial.
Speaking of cordial Bodega Cats, I once woke up in a semi-stranger’s apartment after a first date (go me) to a strange sensation on my penis (which could be jarring). I thought maybe (and optimistically) I was getting a ZJ (which is when someone wakes you up via fellatio), but something felt a little bit off. Like, sand-papery off. I fully came to to find a random cat I did not recall seeing the night before, licking my dick.
“What’s all this, then?” is not exactly what I said, but it was something like that. The woman informed me that the cat from the bodega a couple floors down would occasionally climb up her fire escape and come in through her open bedroom window to wander around or, I guess, lick a wang if the opportunity presented itself. I worried that this cat was shirking its duties. The rats know what the hell they’re doing, and probably just sat around waiting for this cat to bounce for a few minutes in pursuit of some strange, so they could attack, like, a display of Cap’n Crunch or something.
Okay. That’s all I have to say about cats.
The vibe at a bodega vs. a big grocery store centers mostly around customer service. I’m going to get into sweeping generalization territory here, which I never really like to do, but the people running bodegas tend to be a little more abrasive than your average Mariano’s employee, who always seem like they’re happy to see you and are eager to wish you well not only in the day ahead, but all your future endeavors. It’s very endearing. The bodega owners (I have absolutely no clue who owns Mariano’s, but probably some family called Mariano who also own several boats even though that’s a financial impracticality in a place like Chicago where that thing needs to be dry-docked for about nine months of the year) and employees tend to have an attitude like you’re inconvenience-ing the fuck out of them by patronizing their store. Their tack is kind of, “Why the hell are you darkening my doorstep to buy a bacon, egg and cheese and a Powerade? How dare you come in here and do exactly what one would expect you to do when you come in here? And don’t you fucking dare try to pet our cat. He could end you, and I hope he does.” That’s only until they get to know you, though. Once you become a regular it gets even worse, for some reason. You go in there expecting a psychological beating of some sort, even though I think it’s just their way of having fun with it. Which is also endearing in its own way.
Speaking of customer service, Mariano’s is designed so you don’t have to deal with it at all if you don’t want to, and that’s the bee’s knees if you feel like you’re unsuitable for much human interaction. (I think when a store becomes big enough that it can offer self-checkout, it can no longer righteously refer to itself as a bodega. It’s a form of crossing the Rubicon or jumping the shark.) But something always goes wayward when you’re doing self-checkout, doesn’t it? You’ll be over there trying to do your thing when the single yam you are attempting to purchase for reasons you don’t want to get into won’t weigh right on the scale or whatever, and someone manning the self-checkout post has to come to your aid. Then they also have to check your identification if you’d like to purchase an alcoholic item, which I always do, for comfort. I’m waiting for technology to develop that scans your face and concludes that you’ve been drinking heavily, for years, have probably seen your fair share of shit, and are definitely not under the age of 21.
This is a little big thing: You can’t get tobacco at Mariano’s. At all. Which of course means you can’t get a “loosie.” That’s when you illegally purchase a single cigarette instead of a full pack — a lovely service offered by many bodegas. It’s designed, I think, for people who are in a pinch and can’t afford a 20-rack to tuck into the sleeve of their white T-shirt, but is a godsend for people who know they don’t need to have a full pack but are drunk and desire a little nicotine fix, stat. I haven’t smoked a cigarette in over a year, and give a startlingly hefty amount of my annual salary to the Zyn corporation instead, but there was a time when I first moved to Chicago that I would have a huge cache of yellow American Spirit packs strewn about my apartment from nights when I would want just one or two darts but had to buy the whole shebang. Sure, I could have had the presence of mind to take a pack with me when I headed out for the night, but I’d always be like, “Yeah, I’m not smoking tonight.” But then a few hours later I’d be in 7–11 chasing that dragon all over again.
Finally, I have never seen a full bar with a grand piano nearby at a bodega. And Mariano’s has both of these. People tell you to try all kinds of things if you visit Chicago, like hot dogs without ketchup, deep dish pizza, tall cans of Old Style or shots of Malort. But I’ll tell you to go to a Mariano’s around 6PM on a Friday night. The things you will witness will astound you. There will be a bunch of people getting lit at the bar. Several of them will be swing dancing in the aisles to the tunes brought forth by some random dude in a full-on tux playing the piano. It’s truly something to behold.
Oh, one more thing: Kewpie mayo is not always carried by Mariano’s. Which is a shame.
